


One-shots of Every Flavor

by TiaWattpader



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: ALL THE FLUFF, Character Study, Experiments, F/F, F/M, Love Confessions, M/M, Multi, Mycroft Character Study, Random - Freeform, Tags updated based on Chapters!, Werewolf John, genderswap?, oneshots, prompts will be taken if given... possibly... if intriguing, strictly 3rd POV, taking prompts if given!
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2021-02-01
Updated: 2021-02-28
Packaged: 2021-03-12 01:28:05
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, No Archive Warnings Apply, Underage
Chapters: 3
Words: 6,892
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29127216
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TiaWattpader/pseuds/TiaWattpader
Summary: This will be an accumulation of one-shots or experiments that I want to do to either work on my writing or just let loose some creative ideas while working on my other two works. There will be some material that might make you uncomfortable, that's ok, you don't need to read it!! But maybe some will pique your interest so... give it a shot yeh?I will basically dabble with everything here...Tags will be added as needs arise. this will not be betaed or reviewed so forgive the mistakes.
Relationships: Mycroft Holmes/Greg Lestrade, Mycroft Holmes/Molly Hooper, Sherlock Holmes/John Watson
Comments: 12
Kudos: 10





	1. Gender Swap the whole damn cast!

“Bloody hell Shirlock!” Joan screamed over the third gunshot that exploded in the flat. Shirlock was lying prone on the couch, her eyes half-shut and not even bothered by Joan’s obvious annoyance. The pistol was cocked back once again and a fourth shot rang out.

“What the HELL are you doing?” Joan screamed empathetically, rushing to cover her ears at the distressing sounds. Shirlock turned her head to Joan as if only now recognising her presence. “I’m bored.” 

“That doesn’t justify shooting up Mr. Hudson’s walls! He’ll have a fit over this!” Joan had marched over to Shirlock’s lanky body and wrestled the gun out of her hands, unloading it and latching on the safety. 

“God Joan… I hate being human. The transport is only a weakness to the mind on a daily basis, and now nature seems to add insult to misery and wreck a disgusting plague amongst the female specimens each and every month!” She finished her triage with a long, disgruntled and pained groan. 

Meanwhile, Joan (having safely hidden the pistol from any immediate access) smiled and let out a hearty chuckle, “I did always make it a point to my commanders that women are made of much tougher stuff than the average man. They usually never questioned my orders during that time of the month anyways.” 

“What on earth makes you think that this is in any way an advantage?” Shirlock moaned again, this time her arm flung over her eyes dramatically. In her simple sweatpants and pyjama shirt though, the effect was unremarkable at best.

“Never said it was an advantage, but it does make us slightly more accustomed to pain and thus more tolerant of it.” Joan, satisfied with Shirlock being safe for a few moments rounded off to the kitchen to make a fresh cup of tea. 

“I would be plenty glad to be rid of this predicament permanently.” Shirlock said in ignorance of Joan’s earlier points. There was a gentle hush over the flat, as the kettle boiled and Joan made no comment until two cups of tea were set before the couch and she sat in front of Shirlock. 

“You know… it is possible to do that… if that’s what you really want.”

“I’m well aware of the concept of a hysterectomy Joan, and I have yet to find a good reason to get Myacroft to pay for it.”

“You do realize that it would mean a permanent end to your periods and thus your ability to ever get pregnant right?” Joan bit her lip, she was well aware that Shirlock was not interested in marriage… or even men… but sacrificing that part of you was a large step, one that couldn’t really be reversed. 

Shirlock looked at her as though she had gone insane, “Joan, I am quite aware that I lack the medical degree you have, but I assure you it does not impede my ability to understand the basics of a hysterectomy!” 

“I take it that you don’t ever want to have children then?” Joan said, ignoring the slight to her medical degree. Shirlock turned her gaze away from Joan and continued to stare at the ceiling as though it were suddenly vastly interesting while muttering her response, “I do not fancy the effects of pregnancy and despite that I have no interest to sacrifice my life to care for an annoying, screaming, needy thing such as a baby.” 

Joan sniggered but said nothing else except, “Does sound an awful lot like you though —”

A soft tapping on the door signaled Mr.Hudson’s arrival back from Mr. Turner’s. Once Joan hollered out “Come in!” There was the soft shuffling of his old feet before he poked his head around a corner and grinned, “Hoo hoo! I was just checking in on you girls, heard quite the racket from Mr. Turner’s apartment!” He then caught sight of Shirlock and the bullet holes, “Oh dear! Shirlock did you have to shoot the walls again? I’m putting it on the rent, young lady!” Then as if deciding to ignore the entire mishap he walked into the kitchen and dining room and set up a vase with some bright flowers, “I saw them on my way and thought the daisies would just go splendidly with my winter irises!” He huffed about, mindless to the warm smile on Joan’s face and the indulgent roll of Shirlock’s eyes. “Thank you Mr.Hudson, it’s beautiful!” 

“Oh not a bother at all Joan, I always thought every home should have at least two or three arrangements to brighten up the air. Very well, I won’t bother you girls for long, ta now!” He made his way out humming a tune and smiling. 

“Such a gentleman really, would have charmed all the ladies back in his day.” Joan said thoughtfully, bending to sniff one of the purple irises. Shirlock huffed from her position on the couch and muttered, “Goodness knows you would have been charmed… then again that’s not really a marvel, you fall for every Tom, Dick or Harry that falls your way.”

“OI! Watch it. I never dated a man with any of those names and Harry is my brother!”

“Oh whatever, just saying your standards for a gentleman aren’t quite up to par with the rest of the world Joan.” Shirlock hummed. 

“Well. Fuck you too.” Joan said and sipped her last bit of tea loudly and made a point of ignoring Shirlock’s empty cup when she washed hers. 

Joan wasn’t too choosy with her men, granted she didn’t want a wimpy bastard who had no inkling of what it meant to live her life, but that didn’t mean she wanted a soldier like herself. Goodness knows that would bring billions of issues with pulling rank and orders in the home. Joan shivered at the thought. She really just wanted someone who was smart, quick, kind, and above all… loyal. A cheating man was worth less than the dirt on her shoe in her opinion, and she didn’t even bother to hide her thoughts on Gregoria’s husband. Granted, Gregoria was made of stuff tougher than steel, but even so, a cheating spouse hurt.


	2. A Study in Mycroft Holmes

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> THIS IS NOT INCEST.
> 
> This is a character study where I go over some of my head-cannon for the brother's time when they were little. I just realllly love Mycroft, and really appreciate him as an older brother. I also really find his obsession with Sherlock understandable. It's a manifestation of parent-siblings where a sibling takes charge of their younger brother or sister and cares for them as an adult would. This can sometimes be great. And sometimes... not.
> 
> Personally, I relate to Mycroft a lot. My obsession with my sibling is such that I WOULD use CCTV to know where they are and how they are doing and ... *blinks* yeah I'm workin' on it ok. Therapy and stuff XD  
> Anyways, there isn't any incestuous love, but the characters do love each other and it's a reallllly strong love.

#  Mylock - 1

Mycroft was thirteen when he finally sorted the differences between him and Sherlock. For the past six years, he had been watching Sherlock closely, hardly letting him out of his sight for longer than twenty minutes. The truth was, Mycroft was enamored with his little brother; a little creature which his parents possibly meant to raise at one point or another, but who had become the single best gift in Mycroft’s life.

His intentions at first were… not the most pure. Here he had an opportunity to experiment on a human from infancy to adulthood. A chance to mold the perfect person, and give him every ability that Mycroft thought necessary.

It started with removing others from the equation, of course Mycroft couldn’t really exclude his parents from raising their youngest son, but he ensured that the majority of the time it was him who reared the newest Holmes son. As soon as he was able to open his eyes and, according to the baby-care books which Mycroft rented, was able to see clearly, Mycroft began to teach Sherlock.

He began with rudimentary colors, repeating them in a monotone and hoping that it would stick. He also began to experiment with the colors, showing Sherlock a red block, reciting its name, and then rewarding him with some baby treat. Soon Sherlock was able to associate red with something he liked and would coo at the color whenever he saw it. 

Mycroft also practiced with words and numbers; attempting to simplify the theory for an infant proved strangely difficult, but it provided him a grand escape from the confines of his mind and the dull world around him.

Before Sherlock, Mycroft had begun to hate the world. It was boring and old, and so incredibly stupid. Humans making the same mistakes over and over again. The ridiculous merry-go-round of life and the mind-numbing nature of school and society was pushing him to the limits of his sanity. Sherlock arriving when he did was like the best remedy. All of a sudden there were millions of experiments to conduct, there were years which he could spend simply watching and teaching his little brother. 

He had not formed any real bond with Sherlock until he began to walk. Sherlock was a very observant baby, he followed everything with his eyes, and made expressions that made reading him crystal clear to Mycroft. But Sherlock never uttered a single word. Mycroft would sit with him, hours on end, every weekend he had, and repeat words to Sherlock. Words he had researched that were the most common for babies to begin with. When that didn’t work, he tried them in different languages. This started with French, as both his parents spoke it fluently and he assumed his brother would need to speak it simultaneously with his English. It failed however and thus began a parade of languages that Mycroft learned in an effort to teach his brother how to speak.

Mycroft tried Spanish, then he tried German, when Russian, Turkish, and Arabic also failed he turned to Greek and then Latin. Nothing made Sherlock speak. He would give grunts or whines, perhaps even hums to melodies but he would stubbornly refuse to speak.

Although this was a source of great frustration for Mycroft it was also a delicious challenge. Here was his first main obstacle in his experiment. Sherlock could easily tell hundreds of colors from each other, could identify numbers in their respective order based on values. He was even able to understand body language enough to communicate in that way, usually by using a multitude of hand gestures and facial expressions. And so Mycroft continued to try to squeeze words out of his brother. 

Sometimes it would appear like Sherlock was on the verge of saying a word. He would be frustrated with Mycroft who wasn’t being reasonable and making him play number games instead of his favorite color games. At those times his face would scrunch up into an adorable pout and he would open his mouth seemingly on the verge of some word like “NO” or “STOP”. But the words never came out and all that ensued was a frustrated pout and then Sherlock going into a mini tantrum where he would refuse to answer any of Mycroft’s questions. 

As such, Mycroft let the issue of speech hang loosely for the next year or so of Sherlock’s life. Besides there were other, more exciting objectives to be reached. Mycroft had allowed his brother into his room many times, in fact Sherlock practically never visited his own room and rather stayed with his brother at all times. Initially, Mycroft did not care for his baby brother’s company. A noisy, squeaky child with inexplicably sticky fingers was not something he would want in his well-organized and micro-managed room. That changed rather rapidly. Sherlock caught a rather vigorous flu one week and was forced into a week of bedrest. Stuck in his room alone for hours on end, Mycroft couldn’t help but hate the lack of life in his room. The little paters that Sherlock’s bare feet made in that distinctive waddle, or the small coos and giggles when he was opening up books. In essence, Mycroft felt as though his room had somehow died. 

He couldn’t stand it for more than a day before bringing the snotty, crying little boy into his room and letting him sleep on his bed. When his parents tried to reason with him and warn him about getting sick, Mycroft gave them his haughtiest look and said, “It is an experiment in cross-contamination and virus mutations, I cannot have my subject out of sight or it may jeopardize the data.” His parents weren’t very certain of their eldest son’s capabilities with Sherlock, but he had never shown malicious intentions and so they had no real reason to say no. 

Of course, Mycroft got sick, and spent his tissue-infested days sitting with his brother on the bed grumbling about everything in the world while his brother giggled with him. 

Strangely, even after the sick spell left, the brothers continued sharing a room, Sherlock not giving the slightest interest in returning to his own room. He had grabbed the necessities (a stuffed toy dog) and simply moved in with his brother. Mycroft for his part was rather pleased with this turn of events, though he had no idea why. Suddenly the idea of spending the night, with such a small little body next to his, little puffs of air reassuring the life in his brother’s lungs was something he couldn’t live without. And for some reason, it softened him, Mycroft would stroke Sherlock’s hair until his brother fell asleep and it was equally as comforting for him. 

However, Mycroft’s room wasn’t all Sherlock-proof, nor was it just bed time that he shared with Mycroft. Sherlock spent every day with his brother, including the times in which his brother was experimenting. They were once very volatile and dangerous chemical experiments, but Mycroft soon found his interest diverted from chemical analysis towards the safety of his brother. As such, he moved his experimentation to the kitchen. 

As such, the two would spend hours in the kitchen, messing about with cake recipes and cookie doughs. Mycroft had never once had an interest in baking, but with the sudden need for safer experiments he found an obsession in baking sweets. The brothers would play with different ratios of soft or crunchy cookies and had utmost fun in attempting to make French pastries. Sherlock was an excellent help, with anything that required tasting, that is. Much of the actual work Mycroft had to do, save the dishes which neither boy did. 

Sherlock was around two years old when he conducted his first experiment alone. It was a rather amusing one to be honest, Mycroft had not been home at the time and that left Sherlock to his own devices for a few minutes too many. Sherlock had created a masterpiece on the floor of the kitchen, a mixture of water, flour, sugar and eggs spread all over the tiles and counter space. Bowls and spoons and baking trays were scattered into the mix as well. Mycroft discovered the mess after their parents who had already set to cleaning the demolition with something like resignation. Meanwhile, Sherlock gazed at them with humor in his eyes and not a trace of shame over the mess. When all was said and done he walked over to Mycroft and latched onto his leg, “I made cake, Mycie! It was an ex-peer-meant!” 

The sound of the little two year old’s voice was such a shock to everyone that the entire household fell silent for a while. Then of course came the huge collective sigh of relief and the over-emotional congratulations from their parents. The cake in question was never actually found until a few days later when it was learned that Sherlock did not put it in the oven, but in the microwave instead.

It was soon obvious to Mycroft why Sherlock had not spoken up to that point. In truth Sherlock had perhaps said his first words months earlier but had done so quietly and in relative privacy. Only revealing to the family that he could speak when he was confident that he could form sentences. Simple and roughly pronounced as they were. It was a great relief for Sherlock’s parents who had considered speech therapy. Mycroft was equally relieved and amused. It was quite endearing that Sherlock’s first sentence held both the words “Mycie” and “experiment”, words that clearly meant a lot to Sherlock as he would use them multiple times a day. Often in conjunction.

When Sherlock aged to around four years and Mycroft was nearing eleven, their parents had begun to discuss sending Sherlock to daycare. This was a development that Mycroft foresaw but was secretly hoping against. He had prepared a written speech with a carefully composed argument in order to persuade his parents to let Sherlock stay home. Among the plethora of reasons that Mycroft had personally, he pulled up studies to support his claims that homeschooling Sherlock would be for the best. 

His parents beat him with a simple argument which he had not once considered. “Mycie, love. We know you love Sherlock, but try to understand that not everyone is as smart as you, and its most likely that Sherlock is not either. If he only stays with you, how do you think that will affect him? He won’t be able to keep up.”

This argument, that Sherlock was not a genius like Mycroft, was thoroughly disturbing to the older brother. It opened an entire passage of possibilities, all of which were demonstrative of Sherlock’s short-commings. His parents did send Sherlock to kindergarten, and Mycroft continued his schooling. He was terribly lonely for those three days. And he knew enough about basic psychology to understand why. He missed his brother — no… the words he needed to describe this large gaping hole in his chest were not summed in words like “missed”. He could miss a bus, or miss having a certain cake for a while. He yearned for his brother, he was tearing apart without Sherlock. He felt it like a physical appendage, an arm being torn from his body. His little brother was more than a sibling to him. He was irreplaceable, he was the world to him. Without Sherlock, the world once again began to muddle into an ugly, grey abiss. Food lost its flavor and life lost its color. 

Three days after Sherlock was sent to kindergarten he was pushed right back out. The teachers first and foremost were worried. Sherlock was not playing with the other kids, and he consistently would tell the teachers that the other kids were “playing dumb” or “boring”. Their second complaint however, was the amount of crying that Sherlock displayed on the second and third day. Non-stop screaming for his brother and was unable to be calmed with anything. The final straw that broke their backs was Sherlock’s intelligence. He was too smart for the class. He loathed the books they read at storytime, and despised all the make-believe jobs that they would play at. 

And so it was without much fuss that Sherlock returned home, this time for good. Mycroft was surprised by the amount of joy and relief he felt upon the announcement from his parents that Sherlock wouldn’t be going back to the kindergarten. Sherlock was overjoyed for certain and made his thoughts abundantly clear by demanding that Mycroft hold him for the rest of the day. And Mycroft did not object one bit. 

When Sherlock turned five he began proving his parent’s theory wrong. Although slower than Mycroft, he was clearly a brilliant boy. Mycroft realized early on that Sherlock lacked the photographic memory which Mycroft had. This meant a new technique for learning had to be implemented, one which made use of continuous practice and repetition. Sherlock took easily to all the new words in French and English, but had difficulty with combining them into coherent sentences. He would mix the tenses and the conjunctions, and completely fail at most English pronunciations. Math did not have the same issues, Sherlock took to the basic principles easily and clearly enjoyed the aspects of addition and subtraction. 

Mycroft was working on his AP chemistry book, one afternoon while Sherlock did his maths on the floor. He was sitting behind his desk with a clear view of Sherlock’s paper and noticed that his brother had finished the sets and was now copying the Periodic table of Elements from the wall poster on the back of his sheet. 

“Sherlock, what are you doing?”

“Drawing the —” The large, grey-blue eyes squinted at the words at the top of the poster, “Pree-o-dic table of the El-mets.” He concluded with a questioning glance at Mycroft who grinned and corrected his brother. 

“You jumped over the first ‘e’ in periodic and the second one in elements, do you want to learn the elements?”

Sherlock jumped up and walked to the desk, “Yes! I thought that it was the alphabet ‘cause of all the letters —”

“ _ Be _ cause —” Mycroft corrected automatically. His brother rolled his eyes adorably (a habit he had picked up at some point and seemed overly fond of) but corrected himself, “Because of all the letters. But then I saw that they were out of order and some were paired up and some were big and others small.”

“Well done. What else did you notice?” Mycroft listened with fascination to his brother’s observations. It appeared to him that Sherlock’s best skill was at noticing things, he at once noticed if something was amiss in a room, or if there were interesting things in a photo. From the smallest detail to the obvious ones he was observant of them all. He displayed his talents yet again as he explained to Mycroft his discoveries about the table. “They had numbers from left to right going from 1 to 118. But there were two rows on the bottom with numbers 57 to 71 and 89 to 103. They had little names under the letters but I couldn’t see them that good. Oh, and they had another number on the bottom. But there wasn’t any really exact pattern to those except that they also got bigger left to right.” Sherlock took a breath and then peered at his older brother with expectant eyes, “Did I miss anything?”

“Well done Locky, did you notice the colors?” Mycroft ruffled his brother’s curls loving the silky soft bounce they had as his pale and thin fingers ran through them. Sherlock’s eyes fluttered shut and he hummed agreeably to Mycroft’s ministrations. “Well, o’viously. But they don’t make sense. There isn’t a picture in them or any reason for them to be colored.” Sherlock gave his best puzzled pout and looked up at his brother expectantly.

“You skipped over the ‘b’ in “obviously”, Sherlock. It is called color-coding. When you see colors grouped like that, they usually signify that those with the same color share certain characteristics. Meaning they have similar traits.” Mycroft smiled as his brother leaned into his hand and lifted Sherlock up to his lap, now able to use both his hands to massage his brother’s hair. It was plain addictive and he just had to figure out if there was a way to keep the soft hair from ever getting rough with age. The moment his hands drifted away and he tried to reach for his reference Periodic table to explain to Sherlock more on the matter however, his little brother’s hands snatched Mycroft’s hands and placed them firmly on his head again. “More!” was his simple and yet very firm demand. 

So the afternoon commenced with him and Sherlock reviewing the Periodic table and naming most of the elements. Shockingly, Sherlock was able to pronounce the majority of their names correctly after a couple of tries, though it was endearing when he lisped though “Hassium” calling it “Hathium” by mistake. His favorite element was Holmium for obvious reasons, but he had an affinity towards the halogens as well. 

  
  
  
  
... To be continued??


	3. Werewolf Love Confession

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Legit says it in the title... werewolf John... love confession.. the jazz... Another little drabble for me and just some practise! Again none of this is even double checked... it's legit practice and a little bit of ... brainstorming  
> Also... I noticed I am much too fond of the ellipses "..." and will try to use less than three thousand in the rest of my chapter... no promises though as they seem to be instinct whenever my brain pauses XD

The moon rose in a shock of red, bleeding into the black sky and breathing cold flames on the cold pavement in front of 221B. John took a deep breath and shut the door behind him.

He had told Sherlock that he was going out this evening, and the response had been just as usual. A huff and some mild comment about how he was wasting his time on “this one”. This one, being the woman John made up in an effort to hide his nocturnal habits. 

Thankfully, Sherlock wasn’t interested in John’s sexual conquests, at least not to a point of stalking him. That wasn’t a fool-proof method to fool the detective however, and there had to be consistent dates every once in a while, to keep the facade real. 

John turned the corner right beside the alleyway he used for these nights. There was a little shack, just between Mrs. Turner’s and some tiny tobacco shop (sold hookahs from the looks of things) that he walked into. It was more of a metal bunker to be honest; a wee bit smelly from old mold or dust, and just the smallest hint of blood. 

Ah well, beggars can’t be choosers. John slid in, locking the heavy metal door behind him with three of the lock choices. Then he felt along the wall for the lightswitch, nearly toppling over the coffee table that he KEEPS FORGETTING ABOUT!

The warm light blasted in from the few bulbs hanging from the ceiling, and finally the door to the basement was revealed. Yet another heavy, iron door, with a strange few dents maring the otherwise smooth metal of the door slab. 

Ignoring the basement for the moment, John took his time reaffirming that what he needed was here. The single bedroom to the far right was open, the door long unneeded. He spotted the dull mattress and was briefly reminded of his times before meeting Sherlock. Times where he would be sitting in a single bedroom apartment like this one; times that he considered were best forgotten. 

The fridge was still working luckily, which meant that the bags of raw chicken legs were still good from two nights ago. John poured himself a large glass of water and then braced himself on the kitchen counter. 

Since Afghanistan, he had become a shifter, more normally known as a werewolf or were. It wasn’t necessarily something unheard of, rather common in other parts of the world. But the truth was that magical species like werewolves, vampires, fairies, witches and warlocks… they were becoming rarer. And were often only found in underdeveloped countries. He was attacked during a raid, and came back bitten and changed for life.

The UK was helpful of course, this was his own private bunker. A sanctum of sorts that he could retreat to when the need or urge to transform hit him. The malady wasn’t consistent with the legends of the “full moon”, he could transform anywhere at any time. If he went too long without a transformation however, he would be forced to transform. That was the only accurate part of the legend at least, if he spent a month without transforming, he would be unable to control his next transformation. 

So John made it a very important point to do his transformations at least once a week, he never knew when Sherlock would drag him on a case, and couldn’t afford for his flatmate to know about this.

That was the biggest issue of course, how to hide something from the man who was a detective for a living? John was smart, but there was no doubting that Sherlock was smarter. He wouldn’t be able to fool him forever.

So why bother hiding this in the first place? Well, Sherlock would leave. This was a point that no matter what John couldn’t convince himself otherwise. There was simply no scenario where Sherlock, willingly, would stay after such a revelation. The Baskerville case had solidified his theory all the more. His fear in that cage hadn’t been of the hound on the other side, but of the growing ferocity of John’s urge to transform. He had nearly lost it there, but shifting then would have meant the end of their friendship… That was something John refused to accept. 

Sherlock was more than a friend, to John at least. Sherlock was … a reason to live… or rather “the” reason to live. And John could be perfectly happy for the rest of his life, so long as he had Sherlock in his life. He could love, care, feed, and nurture this man and needed nothing in return but Sherlock’s presence. It was the first time in his life, since his childhood with Harry, that he was able to care for someone consistently. And it gave him purpose. It was everything to him. And he loved it, he loved Sherlock. It was impossible not to, Sherlock needed him, actually needed him. Be it for stupid things like reminding the madman to eat, sleep, drink or realize that what he had said was “a bit not good”. Sherlock needed John. 

And John loved him for it. Of course, there was the fact that he was uncontrollably attracted to Sherlock and consistently wished he could kiss those beautiful cheeks and lips. But that was rather beside the point. 

The point being; John could not lose Sherlock, thus, John could not reveal that he was a werewolf. There were ugly things about becoming the beast… and they had nothing to do with the bloodlust, the violence, the viciousness, or even the monstrosity of actually physically changing into another creature. 

Werewolves were terribly sexual. Like severely. To the point where John had brought over a small ottoman for the sole purpose of rutting against. It was humiliating to a severe degree, but it was a necessity. Without some form of sexual release, his shifts would become extremely violent. Being trapped in a metal box was excruciating on its own, and without the sexual release, he would go into a rage attack. Most of those ended with him beaten up, bruised and sore for days or weeks on end. Not to mention the damage to the door.

John sighed, he didn’t want to spend more than an hour or two here… but he was feeling icky since he hadn’t transformed for nearly two weeks. The cases have not permitted him a break, and Sherlock always seemed to need one thing or another during the nights that John could have gone. 

John walked to the bedroom and undressed, putting on just a simple robe over his completely naked body, mostly for habit’s sake. He then took the packs of chicken and walked into the basement, unlocking the door with his fingerprint, something he didn’t have in wolf-form.

He would be able to leave at any point really, he would just need to shift into his human form and unlock the door. It wasn’t even specified for his fingerprint only, it was just the fact that it needed a fingerprint to open. A human print. Technically, it was a back-up safety in case he ever injured himself too much during a shift and needed to call for help. In that case, paramedics could also open the door. 

The floors were cold to John’s bare feet and he was impatient to shift. He locked the door behind him, threw the meat onto his food tray beside his water bucket and checked for the final time that he was set. 

John let the robe slip off and at the same moment allowed his body to shift into the comfortable wolf form it desired. John’s wolf was a large beast, though slightly smaller than the usual werewolf, he stood at an impressive five feet to the shoulder. His fur was a lovely shade of silver and golden brown, not unlike his hair. His eyes were a deep blue, so dark they mixed with his pupils in dim light and looked black. 

The bullet wound that ravaged him in human form was not spared during the shift, in that area he had a large amount of scar tissue, and fur that just wouldn’t grow as long or soft as everywhere else. Despite that, John felt less self-conscious of it in his wolf form, which could be attributed to the fact that no one was ever there to see him shift in the first place.

For the first hour, John didn’t do much, he ran around in circles attempting to get his excess energy spent, as usual it didn’t help. He ate the chicken legs, bones included, and felt no satisfaction for his bloodlust. Frustrated as per usual, he forced himself to sleep in the corner bed. He covered his nose with his ridiculously long tail and huffed in an effort to invite sleep. Nightmares never came to him while in wolf form, which was one of the reasons he used to only sleep in this form. But since moving in with Sherlock, he couldn’t afford to be caught in his wolf form if the detective decided to barge into his room at night. For twenty minutes, John pretended he was asleep, even going so far as to attempt the relaxed breathing pattern of deep sleep. Obviously it didn’t help and he was forced to reckon with his very pressing issue.

He was filled to the brim, with excessive, powerful, raging energy. He wanted to run for miles, he wanted his blood pumping and he wanted to feel the wind whistling through his ears. He wanted his paws to burn from the traction of the ground, and his legs to feel the pain of a strong run. And yet here he was, stuck in a fucking box, with no way to get his heart rate up unless...

Frustrated with his uncontrollable biological urges, John glanced at the ottoman set up for this purpose. Masterbation wasn’t an outstanding alternative, but it did get his heart rate up a bit and the small wave of dopamine always helped soothe him as well. Just as he gave in to the urge and stretched himself off the mattress with a satisfying crack of his bones, he heard the bunker’s front door slam open.

“JOHN?” Sherlock’s voice rang from upstairs and John felt a cold, shocked, dread fall into his stomach like lead. Oh shit…

Quicker than he had ever shifted in his life, John the wolf shifted to his human form and dashed to the staircase, “Wait! Sherlock don’t come in!” 

He was seconds late as the door swung open and Sherlock stood at it’s entrance looking fierce and only slightly mad. For a second they stared at each other in silence, then Sherlock’s eyes glanced down and a red flush rolled up his cheeks.

And wasn’t it just John’s luck that he only now remembered he was stark naked.  _ Fuck _ . “Oh — sorry I wasn’t —” John ducked and grabbed his discarded robe feeling semi-mortified by this entire scene, and praying it wouldn’t get worse.

Sherlock was uncharacteristically quiet but the blush had gone down and now he seemed morose. “Why did you lie to me John?”

“I — sorry what?” John tied the belt and walked up the stairs to Sherlock who was now staring at a spot on the floor with intense concentration.

“You. Lied.” He spat, looking up and meeting John’s eyes with a fierce anger. “What happened to date-night? Decided to practice a bit of BDSM on your own? Or did you just change your mind and find seclusion a preferable alternative than spending time at the flat?” His face was contorted into an angry snarl and it only served to increase the look of hurt in Sherlock’s eyes.

“Sherlock — just let me explain —,” John started, following Sherlock out of the basement. The detective wasn’t having any of it, and glared at John with something that looked like hate from the outside, but John knew covered intense pain. He bit his lip and then gestured to the bedroom, “This might take a while, sit?” 

Sherlock only raised an eyebrow and refused to move from his position, leaning on the small kitchen counter. John sighed and then mentally prepared himself, “Listen… I know it might be… hard to take this but—” 

“If you wanted to move out of the flat so badly that you would rather live here, you could have told me.” Sherlock said bitterly. And his voice sounded so broken to John, so absolutely hurt and shocked and… sad. It was intolerable, “NO. Sherlock I don’t want to move out, that’s not why I have this place!”

“So you do own it…” Sherlock seemed only convinced of his theory and was stubbornly ignoring John’s rising panic.

“Yes... well no not really, the government gave it to me… Wait, just let me explain this the right way Sherlock!” Without waiting for the detective’s response this time John spit out the one thing his flatmate failed to deduce from him from day one, “I’m a were, Sherlock. I was turned in Afghanistan and … this is where I transform safely.”

For a second Sherlock looked stunned, then he narrowed his eyes and appeared to look right into John’s soul. “You’re lying…” He sounded unconvinced of this deduction but his eyes were full of suspicion. 

To settle the point, John shifted. His wolf-form, a comfortable change from his human self. To say that Sherlock was shocked was an understatement. The detective’s eyes were wide like saucers and he seemed incapable of speech, much less simple human balance. 

Sherlock fell ungracefully onto his arse and attempted to regain faculties of his brain. Never would he have missed such an obvious,  _ glaringly obvious _ , detail should it have been presented in a case. So how on earth was he so blindsighted by this revelation? How had he not suspected… not guessed… not  _ known _ that John was a were? It was impossible. 

Sherlock reached out to touch the snout of the great beast, a beautiful wolf indeed and with something of a worried or concerned expression judging by the slight, left tilt of its head… Of John’s head.

“Oh god. You really are a were…” Sherlock breathed. The wolf lifted one paw and took a few tentative steps towards Sherlock, when he stood not an inch away, he lay down and pressed his snout into Sherlock’s shaking palm. 

For some reason, this felt as intimate as a hand caressing a cheek and Sherlock was momentarily stunned… John… wouldn’t normally allow such close physical contact.

“John — I —”

Whatever it was that he was about to say lodged in his throat and died because John shifted again. His eyes were unusually bright and even as Sherlock watched, a tear rolled down his cheek, “I’m sorry Sherlock… I didn’t want to tell you — I was scared you would leave for good. I — I’m still scared.” 

Despite John being stark naked and crying, it was Sherlock who felt raw and vulnerable now, but the words came out before he could think twice on the matter, “I — I would never leave you John… ever… I love you.” 

For a second the sharp intake of breath from John was all Sherlock heard, and then he was being pulled in by two strong arms and his face was being cradled and then soft, warm lips were on his and he was being kissed by John.

John’s kiss was like electricity, and like soft rays of sun. It sparked shock and arousal in Sherlock, yet gave him an indescribable calm and a feeling of deep safeness. Too soon, the lips were gone and John was speaking.

“Oh god, you have no idea how much I’ve wanted to do that, Sherlock.” John’s fingers traced the curve of Sherlock’s cheekbone before pushing the wayward curls from his face. His hands did not leave Sherlock’s face, almost as though he couldn’t bear the separation of skin on skin.

Which was good, because Sherlock would have actually cried if John’s hands left him. Without missing a beat his hand came and curled around John’s neck protectively and he pulled John into another kiss, this time he led. 

He pressed as hard as he could, wishing to break every barrier, wanting to desperately deepen the kiss and yet so addicted to the soft touch of John’s lips that he couldn’t. He settled for desperately licking at John’s lips and waiting for them to open. They did and he dove into John as though he would die if he didn’t. He pushed in, feeling and tasting everything and all he could think was a monotone of  _ John...John...John… _ And never did a name taste so sweet. 

When they parted for air Sherlock spoke, his voice a low rumble colored with amusement, “I have some idea… Seeing as I’ve wanted to do this for a much longer time.” 

John smiled and pressed their foreheads together, “I’m having a rough time believing that.” Then he interrupted himself and gave a small chuckle that eventually turned itself into a rather energetic laugh. 

Amused and wondering what on earth spurred this on, Sherlock chuckled, “What?”

John did his best to explain, really he did. In between gasps and giggles, “Just…. Pfft… us! We…. hhh… We’re such idiots…” He fell into a fit of giggles only to resurface with, “And I never imagined I’d be nude for our first kiss!” At that, Sherlock couldn’t help the enormous laugh that burst out of him. 

“I’ll give it to you… out of the seven hundred and sixty two possible scenarios that I envisioned… this was not one of them! You do always surprise me John.”

John cupped Sherlock’s face again and the mood grew tender once more, “I hope I will always keep surprising you Sherlock. Because nothing makes me happier than to see you like this. I love you, so…  _ so _ … bloody much.” 


End file.
